The Silicon Valley Mystery
by BachelorJohnWatson
Summary: An adaptation of "The Boscombe Valley Mystery". The usual: it can be read as a standalone but it's still a sequel to my previous stories. Rated T because you never know. CHAPTER TEN: unexpected angst. I guess this counts as a warning? CHAPTER 13: mild violence. Should I warn you about this too? LAST CHAPTER: character death. Jeez, what is wrong with me?
1. Have a Nice Day

**Hullo lovelies! Here we go again. I feel like I have to remind you one more time: English isn't my first language, this is not beta'd, let me know what you think and all that jazz. This is based on The Boscombe Valley Mystery and it's literally a work in progress, I know as much as you do. Let's see how it goes.**

* * *

Mary and John are sitting in their kitchen having breakfast when the doctor's phone beeps; his future wife smiles.

- You're being summoned by The Great.  
- Shut it, you don't know. I'm a doctor, maybe it's an emergency.

John reaches for his phone in his pocket and unlocks it.

- Whatever.  
- Told you.

Mary smiles again and sips her tea, leaning back on her seat.

- You know you like it.  
- Yeah…I mean, yeah, it's him.

_"Lestrade just called me. Big case coming up, he wants me to help with the Silicon Valley murder. I hope your leash isn't that tight at the moment. Join me. The flight is at 11.15, tomorrow, Heathrow. Be there. SH"_

- Does he still finish his texts with "SH"?  
- Yes, and he gets mad if I reply without "JW". Go figure.  
- What is it now?  
- Something I can't do. He wants me to go to California.  
- California?!  
- Yes, the Silicon Valley murder. That English businessman found dead near the Guadalupe River. Charles McCarthy, if I remember correctly. The other day Sherlock went on and on and on about that. "It's unacceptable. It's not Silicon Valley, it's Santa Clara Valley. It's like calling London "The Tea Conglomerate".

Mary laughs.

- It's impossible for me to keep a straight face when he says things like that.  
- Trust me, he takes his rants very seriously. You have to suppress the laughs and hope for the best.  
- What are you going to do?  
- Don't worry, I'm not going.  
- Why not?

John almost chokes on his tea and looks at Mary with a furrowed brow.

- What do you mean why not? It's not Brighton, it's San Francisco. I have a job here and I have a wedding to plan. With you. And most of all, it's an eleven-hour flight. With Sherlock. SHERLOCK-HOLMES.  
- Okay okay, calm down, I'm just saying, why not. You can take a week off from work, it's your practice and you have people who can replace you for a bit. Plus, I can manage a week by myself. I have things to do. Colors to choose.  
- You have colors to choose.  
- YES! Go! You have my blessing.  
- What if I don't want to?  
- Please, John.

Mary reaches out for John's hair, stroking it lovingly, and gives him a quick kiss.

- I know you. And I know him. Or at least I understand the dynamics between the two of you. It's not like it's an everyday thing.  
- I feel like a kid asking his mom permission to go and play with his best friend.  
- Exactly. Go and have fun. Don't accept candies from strangers and call me.

John smiles and kisses her back.

_"Permission granted. Coming over in a bit. JW"_


	2. All Fired Up

**I'm taking it slow, as usual. Hope you don't mind, I like to indulge myself in some harmless Sherlock/John moments.**

* * *

It's one of those rare cloudless days in London, with a clear sky and a full morning sun, but the piercing cold paints John's cheeks a bright red; he's walking towards 221B, his hands in his pocket and his coat collar up to shield himself from the freezing wind.

In front of the door, he fumbles with the keys; a couple of weeks before Sherlock told him to keep a copy of them: "it will always be your home", he mumbled, and John smiled to himself knowing that those words were the closest thing to a sign of affection for the detective.

Once inside, John calls for the landlady.

- Ms. H?

A couple of seconds pass by, then a deep voice coming from his old flat answers.

- She's out visiting her sister. How many sisters does she have? It's always a new one.

John chuckles and goes upstairs, finding Sherlock with an old hand lens in one hand and tweezers in the other one, closely inspecting what would appear as an old and worn hat.

- I'm sorry; apparently I've opened the door to the eighteenth century.  
- What are you talking about?  
- The lens. What is that?  
- Oh, it's my grandfather's. I can't use mine if I have to hold the tweezers as well.  
- I see.  
- Are we done with the useless chit-chats?  
_- Hi John. How are you? So nice to see you, this house is empty without you!_  
- Hardly true. I have the skull. And the furniture.  
- And nobody can compete with a desk.

John flops down on his armchair – it's still his armchair – and notices something on the coffee table.

- Sherlock? No!  
- What?  
- Don't play dumb with me, you know what.  
- Don't play nagging doctor with me, I'm allowed to have one once in a while. Ask Mycroft.  
- One? So I won't find unfinished cigarettes lying around?  
- Of course not. But you'll probably find cigars.  
- What? That explains this awful smell. I though you burned something. But seriously, cigars?  
- Yes. Cubans. I though they gave a more sophisticated…allure.

John laughs wholeheartedly and for the first time since he came in, Sherlock looks up at him with a serious gaze.

- Oh, that wasn't a joke?  
- Do I look like I'm joking?  
- Well, it depends. With your grandpa's lens and a cigar, yes, yes you do. What's that by the way?

John points at the threadbare hat in front of the detective.

- Nothing, just one of those whimsical little incidents which happen when you have millions of people all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Between the action and the reaction of such a dense swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place. Some of them striking and bizarre without having a criminal nature.

John stares at him and widens his eyes, sighing heavily.

- Right. I need gallons of tea for this.

The doctor stands up and trots to the kitchen.

- I assume Mary released the leash.  
- Hey, it's my future wife you're talking about; she doesn't keep me on a leash. I do what I want.  
- Having a beer with Lestrade every two weeks doesn't count, John.  
- Shut up. I didn't want to come because I thought it would upset her, with the wedding planning and all. Turns out, she has "colors to choose", so here I am.  
- Right. "The spring wedding". I can hardly wait. As the best man, should I wear a funny hat? I ignore the protocol for these events.  
- Don't be an arsehole Sherlock. She convinced me to forgive you, you have to thank her if we're still friends and – for some weird reason – she really likes you and understands…"us". So drop it and be nice.

Sherlock leans back on the couch and sighs, slurring out words.

- I'm sorry.  
- I beg your pardon?  
- I said…don't worry.  
- Sure you did. So what's this about? Scotland Yard temporarily moving to California?  
- Yes. Apparently, Charles McCarthy was part of the high society of London, close friend of the Queen herself.  
- So basically Mycroft forced you to go.  
- No, I do what I want.

John smiles and hands him a cup of tea.

- So you'll come with me?  
- Yes, wasn't that clear?  
- Excellent! My faithful sidekick is coming!  
- No way, don't start calling me that, I don't want the whole Yard to call me "Robin" again.

Sherlock starts pacing up and down the room like an overly excited kid waiting for Disneyworld.

- Have you read about this?  
- Not much. Enlighten me.  
- Gladly. I've been looking through all the recent papers to gather as much information as I can but our press is a forge of incompetence and sloppiness, as usual. For what I understand, it seems to be one of those simple cases which are extremely difficult at the same time.  
- That helps.  
- Your sarcasm it's duly noted but singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and common a crime is, the more difficult it's to solve it. In this case, they have a very solid accusation against the dead man's son.  
- So the only thing we know is that we're talking about a murder.  
- It appears so, but you know that the best approach is to take nothing for granted until I say so.  
- That's some top-notch modesty, Sherlock.  
- Irrelevant. Anyway, I'll explain the rest on the plane.

And with that, Sherlock turns around and sits in front of his microscope.

- Yes, right. That means I should go. I'm going to pack my things and do my doctor-stuff, as you call it. See you tomorrow. By the way, is there any chance that Mycroft's pompousness will come in handy for once?  
- Of course. A car will be waiting for you outside your house. And first class tickets.  
- Excellent. Bye Sherl-….oh my God. Oh no, please no. No no no no no.

Sherlock snaps his head toward John with a worried look: the doctor runs his hands through his hair and then rubs his eyes furiously, wrinkling his nose.

- What, what is it? You can't come?  
- No, it's not that…it's… I just realized something.  
- Oh, for God's sake, what?  
- You smoke cigars now. It's an eleven-hour flight. You'll go mental and threaten everybody with a spork! Oh God.  
- Have some faith in me, John.

Watson starts to walk away, his fists clenched in his hair.

- Oh God…no, what did I do!  
- See you tomorrow John.

The voice is coming from the stairs now and it's more worried than ever.

- Oh God…I'm going to write my will tonight!


	3. Fly Away

John closes the door to his house and walks to the car waiting for him on the street.  
Sherlock is already inside, all his papers and researches sprawled on every available surface.

- Are you taking all this stuff with you?  
- Yes. Why not?  
- Of course you are. Fun times!

After a quiet ride, they arrive at Heathrow at 10 am, and while waiting for their 11.15 flight John proposes a review of the case in front of a cup of coffee.

- So…tell me.  
- I'm sure there's no need to tell you what Silicon Valley is.  
- Thanks for having faith in me.  
- You're welcome.  
- … I'll probably need a sign with "sarcasm" written on it to make you understand what I'm mean whe-  
- Finished?

John sighs.

- Yes, go on.  
- Charles McCarthy started his carrier here, in London, as a software developer in early '70's, working for a certain John Turner, tech-genius and philanthropist who became sort of a mentor for McCarthy, even though he's just ten years younger. A couple of years ago Turner decided to open a branch office here in San Francisco – Cupertino, to be precise – and asked McCarthy to move here and work as the director of the American headquarters. McCarthy's wife died five years ago and they had a son, James, eighteen, who gladly followed his father and moved to San Francisco with him. Turner currently resides there as well, he's also a widower but has a daughter instead; he owns a huge estate near the Guadalupe River Park and offered McCarthy to stay there indefinitely. The two families are obviously very close and they lead retired lives. Turner has a considerable household, half-dozen at the least, while McCarthy has two, a man and a woman. That's all I've gather about the families so far. Now, for the facts…"

The two already reached the boarding gate without actually realizing it and they are now waiting in line.

- …on Monday morning McCarthy left his house at about three in the afternoon and walked down the river. He told his house servant he had an important appointment from which he never came back alive. The distance from his house to the river is a half a mile, more or less, and two people saw him walking by: an apparently unnamed old woman, and William Crowder, the gardener. Both witnesses said to the authorities that he was walking alone, but the latter said that within a few minutes he saw his son, James, following him with a gun in his hand. Father and son were seen by the river by the fourteen year-old daughter of the gate keeper, Patience Moran. She heard McCarthy using "strong language" to his son and the boy raising up his hand as if to hurt his father. She ran away, told her mother and…  
- Sir? May I see the boarding pass?  
- …a few minutes later, James arrived telling them he found his father dead. He didn't have the gun with himself and his right sleeve presented fresh blood stains. They followed him – how idiotic, you think he's the killer and you happily follow him to the crime scene? Seriously John, Darwin is rolling in his grave, the natural selection is failing…  
- Sir?  
- Sherlock?  
- …but anyway, once at the crime scene they saw the body of McCarthy with his head smashed by repeated blows with some heavy and blunt object, might as well have been inflicted by the grip of his gun.  
- Sherlock?

The hostess is flinching, visibly worried at the words "body" and "head smashed".

- Sherlock?  
- What, John, WHAT?  
- Boarding pass?  
- _Oh_.

Walking down the corridor that leads to the plane, Sherlock observes John intently.

_Sweating palms. Ragged breathing. Wiggles fingers of predominant hand, makes fists. Rubs his nose every five seconds. Grabs my right arm. Wait, what?_

- John?  
- I can't.  
- What?  
- I'm…  
- …afraid of airplanes, that much is clear.  
- Don't be your usual self right now Sherlock, please, it's a real thing.  
- But why, you went to Afghanistan, you invaded a country and fought in a war.  
- For Christ's sake, stop with that, I didn't "invade a country", I was an army doctor.  
- Exactly, and your squeezing my arm like a scared child.

John snaps his head and looks down: he didn't even realize what he was doing.

- I'm sorry, I didn't…it was a reflex.  
- Yes, clutching onto something, or someone, that makes you feel safe.  
- Don't flatter yourself.  
- I'm not; it's just how it works.

In a moment they both realize they're standing in the middle of the tunnel, blocking the passage; John loosens his grip on Sherlock's arm and they start walking again; the doctor's pace slowed a little and the detective can see anxiety painted on his face: he slowly places his hand on John's shoulder as they walk.

- John. Calm down. Statistically, air transportation is safer than-  
- YES, Sherlock, I know, I know all there is to know about statistics and safety and...all that.  
- So you see that yours is an irrational fear.  
- What do you mean, I'm not a child, of course I do, but it's the meaning of phobia, it's not rational and most of all it cannot be overcome by statistics.  
- Technically is not-  
- For crying out loud Sherlock, stop it! I'm afraid of flying, you are afraid of pigeons; can't we just leave it at that?

Sherlock stops abruptly and stares at John, slightly amused.

- First of all, I'm not afraid of pigeons. They're just useless flying buckets of diseases. Secondly, we're not boarding on a giant pigeon so your argument doesn't make sense.  
- Yes, the next time you'll try to convince me to take another route to the Yard because "it's faster this way" I'll remember to point out the harmless pigeons in front of us.  
- I don't know what you are talking about.  
- Of course.

Apparently, bickering with Sherlock made things easier for John, since right now they're already seated and fastened. The detective smirks knowingly.

_It works every time.  
_  
- I know what you did.  
- It's futile to argue when there are results.  
- I'm not; I just don't want to give you the satisfaction.  
- I'm okay with that.

After a while, the plane starts to move and John starts to panic again.

- So you don't care about the wedding, am I right?

The doctor turns his head and stares at Sherlock, flared nostrils and gritted teeth.

- Www-hattt?  
- Don't look at me like that. Why don't you try, for once, to read between the lines? Or even listen. I said "wedding", not "marriage".  
- So?  
- So, you told Mary you didn't want to come because of the "wedding planning" when in fact your first concern was your fear of flying. You don't care about the wedding.  
- You're wrong Sherlock. I do care.  
- So you care about colours, flowers, centerpieces and invitations?

John winces.

- Yes, yes I care.  
- I can imagine. Tell me, do you prefer Jacquard o parchment paper? And what about the flowers? Lilies or Roses? Personally, I'd choose white Ranunculus. And the colours, oh, the colours, if you go with pastel ones you can't lose. As for the centerpieces, I'd say-  
- ALRIGHT ALRIGHT, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! Fine, you win! I don't care, I never cared so little in my entire life, I've always imagined my wedding to be a quick one, with very few witnesses and no flowers, no expensive invitations, no Ranunculus, no pastel colours, NO NOTHING. So yeah, I don't care about my wedding, I just wanna get married. Are you happy now?

Sherlock smiles genuinely at John.

- Very. You can unfasten your seatbelt now.


	4. Fake Tales of San Francisco

- Lestrade is waiting for us outside the airport.

John looks around and shakes his head.

- This is so weird.  
- What?  
- This. It's like our whole dynamics have been shifted to a completely different place and I feel weird doing our usual…"stuff" here, in San Francisco.  
- That's hardly a problem.  
- I don't expect you to understand. I actually miss the London weather and we haven't even set foot outside.  
- Sentiment.

John and Sherlock are walking toward the exit, carrying their bags, and they can see Lestrade on the street talking on his phone.  
The automatic doors open and Sherlock flinches.

- God, what is this.  
- It a warm climate, Sherlock.  
- It's awful.  
- Yes, I told you, but you insisted with your theory on controlling your body temperature. You ended your rant with "that's elementary, John", if you remember.

Sherlock scowls, turns his head and takes it out on the detective inspector.

- So…exporting our incompetence, are we?  
- Yes, Sherlock, we're very proud. That was your brother, by the way.  
- What does he possibly need now?  
- Just making sure you landed safely.

John sighs heavily and rubs his left temple.

- Relax John, you'll survive.

The detective dramatically makes his way to the parked cars while Lestrade approaches John and whispers.

- How was it?  
- What?  
- The flight. Believe or not, Mycroft called to make sure you survived.

John grins and watches Sherlock arguing with the other agents, hearing few words about the rational disposition of bags in the trunk of a car.

- Could have been worse. Don't get me wrong, he made a fly attendant cry, he paced up and down the corridor for most of the time getting on everyone's nerves, even the pilot's. We argued about the case and I think he ruined a marriage by deducing the couple sitting next to us. Apart from that, it was okay. I'd call it a normal Thursday. Except for the "flying on a giant piece of metal thing".  
- Afraid, are you?  
- You have no idea.

The two of them starts chuckling and Sherlock grows impatient.

- Do you want tea with that?

**###**

The ride to the police station is the opposite of quiet and John's headache doesn't seem to subside.

- So why are we here exactly?  
- Isn't a dead body enough for you?  
- Usually, but I don't see why cross the ocean for it.  
- Tell me about it. There isn't so much we can do. And to be honest, I don't really know what they want us to do. This kid was found with his father's blood on his hands, literally. He was seeing violently arguing with him and following him with a gun. We can't do miracles.  
- _YOU_ certainly can't.

John rolls his eyes and leans back his head.

- Sherlock please, London puts up with you – still don't know why – but I don't think your attitude would be welcomed here.  
- What attitude, what did I do?

Lestrade tries to shift the attention back to the case before it's too late.

- Kids, please. Be quiet. As I was saying, I could hardly imagine a more obvious case, but people close to James McCarthy insisted on his innocence, even though every circumstantial evidence points to him.  
- Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing, Lestrade. It may seem to lead very straight to one thing, but if you shift your point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something completely different. There's nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.  
- The thing is, he confessed.  
- What?  
- Well, sort of. As he was getting arrested he said to the police that he was not surprised and he deserved it.

John turns to Sherlock.

- So there's a confession.  
- I don't think so. Let me guess, all this was followed by a claim of innocence.  
- That's exactly what happened.  
- However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were strongly against him. Had he appeared surprised or indignant at his own arrest I would have considered it highly suspicious. His frank acceptance of the situation makes him either innocent or a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness.  
- …and he thinks he deserved it because of the fight they had earlier.  
- Yes, John, precisely.  
- Anyway, McCarthy is in custody now. I haven't questioned him yet, I've waited for you.  
- How considerate.

Ten minutes later Sherlock strides into the police office without saying a word, followed by Watson and Lestrade; John catches up with the detective's pace and Lestrade starts apologizing to a station completely frozen by the sudden interruption.

- Sherlock, could you please slow down and act like a guest? It's not your home, it's not Scotland Yard, and I've seen people reaching for their guns to stop you. Thank God Lestrade is with us.  
- We don't have time for pleasantries. Plus, I've seen the two morons who reached for their gun. They have an affair, the first one touched his gun and his lover behind him did the same to protect him, not to shoot me. Do keep up, John.

John snorts and turns to Lestrade, mumbling between his teeth.

- A little help here?  
- Sherlock!

The three of them stops in the middle of a corridor and Lestrade points to a room.  
Without permission, Sherlock opens the door to it and the Detective Inspector furiously makes his way inside.

- Could you please let me do my job?  
- Please, help yourself.

Lestrade breathes heavily through his nose and sits down in front of the suspect.

- Mr. McCarthy, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, from Scotland Yard.

* * *

** Aaaaaand...cut! This chapter was getting way too long and I had to slim it down a bit. **


	5. You Don't Fool Me

**As usual, I know this is painfully slow but it gets better. **

* * *

- Scotland Yard?  
- Yes, they requested our presence to help with the investigation.  
- Who did? And who are these two?  
- This is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective and this is John Watson, a consulting…doctor.

John knits his brow and Sherlock smirks; the two of them are leaning against the wall behind Lestrade, the first one with his arms crossed and the latter with his hands in the pocket of his coat.

- Why are they here?  
- To determine whether or not you're an innocent man.

James sighs and runs his hands through his hair.

- I am.  
- We'll see.

The suspect eyes Sherlock with a worried look and then shifts his attention to John, who hints a smile to reassure him. James is visibly exhausted.

- So. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?  
- I've already told the other ones.  
- Yes, but you didn't tell us. Come on.  
- Fine, fine. I had been away for a week and when I came back on Monday morning my father wasn't at home. I was informed by the maid that he went to Cupertino with the driver, John Cobb. Shortly after my return I heard the car being parked in the yard and when I glanced outside I saw my father rushing towards the river. I didn't think it was something to worry about so I took my rifle and went to Turner's shooting range. Crowder saw me but he's mistaken, I wasn't following him. After a while I heard my father shouting "cooee!", which sounds weird, I know, but it's a usual signal between us. I hurried and I found him standing beside the river, surprised to see me, asking me what I was doing there. Then the discussion heated up and given my father violent temper I left and I walked back home. I hadn't gone more than 400 or 500 feet when I heard a…

James stops and holds a hand in front of his mouth, while his eyes are getting watery; Sherlock seizes the opportunity to talk.

- You heard what?  
- A hideous cry coming from the river. I ran back and I found him agonizing on the ground, his head…was…smashed…

John shivers and closes his eyes: he knows the feeling.  
Sherlock notices the doctor's reaction and leans closer to him, his shoulder touching John's.

- …so I ran to the gate keeper's house, asking for help. I saw no one near my father when I came back and I have no idea how he ended up…that way. He wasn't a popular man, he was cold and forbidding but he didn't have enemies.  
- Did your father say something before he died?  
- He mumbled a few words, something about a rat.  
- Does that mean something to you?  
- No, I have no idea what he meant, I thought he was delirious.  
- What were you fighting about?  
- I…I prefer not to answer that.

Lestrade shoots a look at John and Sherlock over his shoulder and then back to McCarthy.

- I'm afraid you have to.  
- I can assure you that it has nothing to do with what happened.  
- That's for me to decide.  
- I'm sorry detective, I can't.

Lestrade sighs and gives up, afraid to upset the young man even more.

- So you said the shout was a common signal between the two of you?  
- Yes.  
- Then why did he do that, not knowing about your return home?

James shakes his head.

- I don't know.  
- Did you see someone or heard something when you ran back to your father?  
- I'm not sure.  
- What do you mean?  
- I was so shocked that I didn't see anything except my father lying there. But as I ran forward I saw something with the corner of my eye, laying on the ground to my left. Something grey, a coat or maybe a blanket? When I stood up from my father and looked around me it was gone. But I had a feeling something was there.  
- How far from the body?  
- About…forty feet?

Lestrade leans back on his seat and takes a couple on seconds to think about the next move, then turns around facing Sherlock and John.

- Do you wanna add something?

Sherlock walks closer to the table and leans against it with his palms.

- The week you weren't home. You spent it with your wife, am I correct?  
- What…how…?

James is now watching John and Lestrade with dazed eyes.

- What's happening?  
- Answer the question.  
- Not until you tell me what's going on.  
- If you insist. I'm going to be quick though, if you don't mind.

Sherlock starts pacing around the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

- When you said you went away for days you flinched. It was a quick move of the corner of your mouth, undetectable to a normal eye but not for me.

John shoots Sherlock a reproaching look and sits with Lestrade.

- So apparently, something – or someone – connected to those days disturbs you. I couldn't put my finger on it – pun intended – but when you held your left hand on your mouth I saw the sign of a wedding ring on your finger. Not a tan line, but that wrinkle that comes from wearing a ring and not taking it off for days. You have a secret wife. But why secret? Why be ashamed by that? You come from a wealthy and prestigious family, so it must be someone whose modest background could embarrass you. So why marry her? My guess – and I'm taking a leap of faith here, confiding in your stupidity – is a trip to Las Vegas. You went there and got obviously drunk but not enough to drive into oblivion, just the right amount to let your idiocy to run free. It's probably a stripper, to which you flaunted your money and heritage and she did what every respectable gold digger would do. Am I right? No, don't answer that, of course I am.

- Sherlock!

Lestrade yells at him and then turns to McCarthy.

- …is it?

James closes his eyes and sighs.

- Yes. All of it.  
- Excellent! I'm done here Lestrade. I'll see myself out.


	6. Rebellion

The suspect suddenly stands up and yells.

- WAIT!

Lestrade tries to block him, afraid he might run away.

- Calm down, James.  
- No, I'm sorry, wait, wait a minute.

Sherlock stands on the doorframe, his back to McCarthy and the others; he just turns his head to the side.

- What?  
- Don't tell anybody. About the marriage, I mean. She's blackmailing me, she won't grant me the divorce saying that if I do she'll spill out everything and I can't do that to my fath-…to the memory of my father. Please, Mr. Holmes.

After a while of silence and a nudge from John, Sherlock sighs and talks.

- This isn't up to me.

As he walks back to the exit, Sherlock hears someone behind him yelling his name.

- Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes?

He keeps walking with John right behind him.

- Sherlock, wait!  
- Mr. Holmes!

Sherlock stops abruptly in the middle of the corridor, forcing John to crash into him.

- For heaven's sake, when someone is calling your name at least stop!  
- Who is she?

Lestrade is approaching the two of them with a young girl at his side: big bright green eyes with plump lips and a tiny nose. A pink flush paints her cheeks with long dark hair that swept down across her shoulders.

- Sherlock, John, this is Alice, Turner's daughter. She's the one who insisted on having us here. Especially the two of you.  
- Really?

As usual, John turns on his charm in front of a beautiful woman and Sherlock looks down at him confused, whispering between his teeth.

- You have a fiancé.  
- So? I just smiled at her.  
- You do realize you're talking to me right?

The young girl smiles widely and claps his hands in front of her in excitement.

- I'm so glad you're here! I'm a big fan of your blog Mr. Watson and I'm a big fan of your work Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock remains silent, scrutinizing Miss Turner as she speaks.

- After what happened with Charles and the way they accused James I immediately though about asking for your help. I feel so bad I dragged you all the way from London, but I'm helpless. Believe me, James is innocent, we've known each other since we were kids and he's too tender-hearted, he couldn't even hurt a fly. The charges against him are completely absurd. You've read the file, you know the details right? Do you see a loophole to work on? Do you think he's innocent?

Sherlock shifts on his feet and looks at Lestrade with challenging eyes.

- I think it's very probable.

Alice's eyes lighten up.

- Thank you! See? He gives me hope!

Lestrade shrugs.

- I'm afraid my…colleague is rushing in forming his conclusions.  
- But he's right. I know he's right. James never did it. Which reminds me about the fight he was having with his father. I think I can help you sort that out.  
- What do you mean?  
- I'm pretty sure the subject of their discussion was me.

Sherlock snaps his head toward her, suddenly interested in her words.

- In what way?  
- Well, there's no point in hiding anym-  
- Wait, don't tell me: arranged marriage between you and James?

Alice grins, happy to be under Sherlock's scrutiny.

- Sort of. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy wanted us to be together, while James and I have always loved each other but more as brother and sister.  
- And your father? Was he in on this?  
- Oh, no, never been.  
- May I talk to him?  
- I'm afraid the doctor won't let you.  
- The doctor?  
- Yes. My father got sick years ago and these recent events got to him and broke him down completely. Dr. Wilson says he's a wreck and that his nervous system is shattered. Charles was the only man alive who had known dad since the old days in Victoria.  
- Victoria? Australia?  
- Yes. My father is British but moved to Australia with his family when he was a kid. He grew up there and there he moved his first steps into the business world. It' was the early 70's and when he met Charles they decided to come back to London and start their own company. Well, more like dad's one, but Mr. McCarthy was a sort of vice president.

John can see Sherlock's wheels moving in his brain, his eyes have that sparkle.

- Interesting. I have to go.

The three of them are left behind as Sherlock strides out of the station; when John and Lestrade step out they find him sitting on a bench smoking a cigar.  
John snorts.

- Again?  
- What is this?  
- He smokes cigars now.  
- Really? Why?

Sherlock lets out a plume of smoke; he leans back, resting both his arms on the backrest of the bench, and narrowing his eyes at Lestrade.

- I can't think of a stupider question that this, _Greg_.

Lestrade is visibly annoyed, his rage is ready to burst out at any second. He rubs his nose with his thumb and index finger then places both hands on his hips and breathes heavily thru his nose.

- That was awful, Sherlock.  
- I really don't what you're talking about.  
- Raising up hopes and making promises you can't keep? I'm not a tender at heart but I call that cruelty.

Sherlock raises both of his hands and shakes his head.

- I didn't make any promises; did you hear me saying "I promise"? Lestrade, I'd love to stay here and chat about your obtuseness but I need to see the crime scene.  
- No, you won't.

In a second, the detective moves to stand just inches away from the inspector.

- WHAT?  
- That's enough Sherlock. It's my fault; sometimes I let you take the lead and I forget who's in charge here.  
- So you make me cross the ocean for nothing? It's not even an eight, tell him John.

John opens his mouth to talk but Lestrade is quicker.

- If you want to consult that's up to you, I'll gladly accept your help but no more…personal involvement in the case.  
- Personal involvement? Me checking the crime scene it's "personal involvement"? I'd love to see you try and stop me.  
- Sherlock, I'm serious, if I found you near the crime scene or talking to suspects or witnesses, there will be consequences.  
- Oh really? Is that what you're reduced to? Petty threats?  
- Do want you want Sherlock, you've been warned. And I have a witness.

The detective inspector nods to John, who suddenly feels like he's between two fires.

- So that's settled. I have an investigation to carry on. You do as you wish, you can stay here and wait for me to ask for your help or you can just take the next flight to London. It's up to you. Bye John.

John gapes and turns to Sherlock. The two of them are standing side by side, watching Lestrade walking away from them: John is speechless while Sherlock is looking furious. The doctor tries to find the right words, those that can dismantle the bomb ticking inside Sherlock's brain.

- So…we're going to the crime scene, right?  
- Obvious.


	7. Crossfire

- What do we do now? Apart for breaking the law and risking "consequences".  
- Are you really threatened by Lestrade's words?  
- Of course not, say what you want about him but your brother is Mycroft Holmes, who cares what the police say.

Sherlock smiles.

- Beside, call me a sentimental idiot but I really want James to be innocent.

The pair is walking down the street when Sherlock suggests using public transportation and avoiding cabs.

- Why?  
- Lestrade can be really clueless when it comes to his job, but when he tries to stop me he's actually…challenging.  
- Really?  
- If you think about my past you can understand why. He knows how to predict my moves but I know he knows.

It took them thirty minutes to get to the crime scene and they immediately spot a patrol waiting for them; or at least Sherlock does. The detective grabs John by an arm and holds a hand on his mouth while smashing his back against a tree. The doctor eyes widen at the sudden move and his soldier instinct urges him to fight Sherlock's grip.

- I'm sorry John. See? That's what I was talking about – Sherlock whispers.

John stares at him and raises his arms, surrendering; after some muffled sounds that were meant to be "you can let go now", Sherlock loosens his grip.  
Without saying a word he moves quietly amongst the trees followed by John, and when the little grove ends and the river begins they squat between the reeds.

- Do you actually know where you're going? – John whispers back.

After a while, Sherlock answers by standing up and looking around him.

- Of course I do. Stand up, we're here.

They arrived at a little patch of muddy ground surrounded by the police yellow tape and Sherlock grins.

- So stupid.  
- Clearly.

In a second, John can see the transformation in Sherlock's eyes: his face flushed and darkened, his brows drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shine out from beneath them with a steely glitter.

- Right, he's gone – John mutters to himself.

Sherlock bends forward; his shoulders bow and his lips are pressed into a thin line, nose flared with pure and animal lust for the chase, his mind absolutely focused. He silently makes his way along the tracks left behind through the marshy and damp ground, and John can do nothing but follow him. There are marks of several different feet which make Sherlock stop many times to look around while John watches him with a proud look, knowing that every move is a step toward the truth.

- They searched the river, probably for a weapon.  
- How do you know?  
- I know. They came like a herd of buffalos and wallowed all over it. Idiots.

He bends down again, this time with his magnifying lens in his hands.

- These are James footprints. Twice he was walking and once running, where the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly there. These are the father's feet as he paced up and down waiting.

Then Sherlock stops talking and starts pacing until he reaches the edge of the grove, under the largest tree; he gets to his knees and starts turning over the leaves and the dried sticks all around it, and after a chuckle of satisfaction he takes out of his pocket two plastic bags and gathers what seems to be just dust, at least to John, and a jagged stone.

- Got it.  
- Did you?  
- Yes, I just need to stop by the Turner's estate to leave a message to the gate keeper.

Sherlock walks past John, forcing the latter to rush behind him, as usual.

- God, I hate this part.  
- What part?  
- The one where you stride out of here with your long legs and a case solved and I have to follow behind you not having a bloody clue of what's going on.

Without stopping and still looking straight ahead of him, Sherlock reaches behind him and hands him a plastic bag.

- Meaning?  
- That's the murder weapon.

**###**

Two hours later they finally reach the hotel they're staying in, John exhausted and Sherlock way too excited.

- At least tell me why we're not in our room. Did you book this suite with your money?

John is sipping an awful cup of coffee sitting in an armchair while Sherlock is pacing the floor, randomly checking outside the window.

- I told the receptionist to send up a visitor.  
- Who, exactly?

Sherlock stops and turns to stare at John.

- The murderer, of course.

John quickly stands up and locks the door as a reflex.

- WHAT? You called the murderer and told him to come here?  
- Him?  
- Him, her, IT, whatever Sherlock, are you insane?  
- We can handle it John.  
- I know we can but we're completely alone in this, no backup, no nothing.  
- There's no need.

The doctor joins Sherlock in his maddening pacing around the room, running his hands through his hair.

- Oh God. I have to call Mary; I haven't called her since we landed, what it's wrong with me?  
- Relax John, there's nothing to worry about.  
- There is plenty! At least tell me who did it!  
- Well…it's a tall man, left handed, limps with his right leg, wears thick-soled-shooting boots and apparently a grey scarf. He smokes Indian cigars; I found ashes under that tree. And you thought that my knowledge of tobacco was useless!  
- Focus, Sherlock! Can't you just get to the name?  
- And spoil all the fun?

John lets out a small cry in frustration and waves toward Sherlock, encouraging him to go on.

- As I was saying, from the length of his strides and the different marks of his feet, I'd he's tall and walks with a limp in his right leg. His left-handed, as the blows on McCarthy's head clearly tell us.  
- What about that "cooee"?  
- Ah, that's where it gets interesting. I couldn't figure it out but when Alice Turner told us about her father's past in Australia it all made sense. Cooee is a shout commonly used in Australia to attract attention.  
- So the murderer must be-

John words are interrupted by a knock: the two of them stares at each other for a while then Sherlock walks to the door.

- Mr. Turner! So happy to finally meet you.


	8. Heart Skipped a Beat

Mr. Turner is a man destroyed by diabetes and mental exhaustion and Sherlock deduces that in a second: his deep, dark circles around his eyes, that almost undetectable tremor in his hand and the cane that helps him with his right feet, affected by the disease.

- Mr. Holmes. I don't understand why I'm here but it's a pleasure meeting you too. My daughter talks about you all the time. And you must be Doctor Watson.

John slowly walks toward him with a sheepish smile, shaking his hands.  
_  
Sweating palms._

- Mr. Turner, please, take a seat.

The man flops down on the couch resting his cane on his legs.

- I've got your message, Mr. Holmes.  
- Ah, yes, of course, glad you came.

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock being overly nice.

- Care to explain why I'm here? Is there something wrong?

Sherlock is standing right in front of Turner while John sits down: he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

- Oh, no, God forbid. Nothing is wrong. I was told by your daughter that you're having a rough time with what happened to your dear friend Charles, so I thought you should be the first to know that we found the killer.

John eyes widen while turning to glance at Sherlock: he grips the armrests of his chair.

- Oh…you found the killer?  
- Yes.  
- Who is it?  
- I think you know, Mr. Turner – Sherlock smiles sardonically.

Turner lowers his eyes with a slow blink, taking in what Sherlock just said.

- I see.  
- Do you have anything to say?

The smug expression on Sherlock's face fades away and then time seems to slow down: both John and Sherlock watches the man as he reaches for something inside his trench coat but both are unable to move. John curses himself; he knows what's going to happen and glances at the other side of the room, on the table, where he put his gun holder when they came in.

Sherlock watches John: he slowly raises his hand to him, _stay put, calm down, I've got this.  
_The doctor tries to protest but finds himself paralyzed on his seat.

_Fear. Drops of sweat. White knuckles gripping the armrests. Calm down, John.  
_  
The doctor gapes and then swallows a lump in his throat.

_No, not again. Please God no.  
_  
Turner takes his gun out of his pocket and smiles.

- I think you know, Mr. Holmes.


	9. Harder to Breathe

**Here, have some bromance! It's just the tip of the iceberg.**

* * *

Sherlock raises his hands above his head but remains calm; John, on the other hand, has leaned his head back and he's now breathing slowly with his eyes closed.

_Too much. Too much, too soon._

- I have to admit, I didn't see this coming. Well done.  
- Sherlock, please. – the doctor sighs with his eyes still shut.  
- What? He's clever. Playing the part of the old and sick man so nobody could see this coming.  
- It's not an act. – Turner mutters between his teeth.  
- Yes, right. Your daughter told us about your insanity.

John stands up, briefly eyeing his gun at the other side of the room, and then turns to Sherlock.

- What are you doing? A man is pointing a gun at you and you provoke him? Didn't you get enough of this?

The detective's eyes soften for a second, and then his icy stare comes back.

- Don't be like that John, we have a guest. Behave.

John scrubs his face furiously and growls, while Turner finds the scene quite amusing and continues to shift his look between the two of them with a grin painted on his face.

- My daughter would find this very interesting.

John and Sherlock, still standing in front of a man with a gun, snap their head towards him at the same time; one yelling with frustration, the other one with his usual inquiring tone, both saying one word: _what?_

- Well.

Turner scratches the back of his head.

- My daughter is convinced you two are a couple.

John rolls his eyes, raises his arms and shrugs.

- I can't believe this. I can't. Is this something we have to do on a regular basis? We're not, okay? We are NOT a couple!  
- Beside, he's engaged.  
- Yes, and there's also that-_what_?

Sherlock smirks and the doctor looks at him confused.

- What do you mean "beside", what is this?  
- Calm down John, this is not the time to discuss our relationship.  
-_ Our relationsh-_ Sherlock, what is wrong with you today?

Annoyed by the pair ignoring him, Turner stands up and slowly walks around the coffee table to stand in front of Sherlock and John, both instinctively backing away and putting an arm in front of the other for protection.

- You know... there are days when my daughter goes on and on and on about you two, nonstop. I'm fairly certain she's obsessed with your work and your relationship. When you "died", Mr. Holmes…

John winces at the memory, fighting the urge to grab Sherlock by his jacket, while the detective wrinkles his nose at the implied air quotes.

- …Alice was very upset. And by upset I mean destroyed. She cried for days on end. And you know what she told me when I asked her why she cared so much?

The man's face is inches away from Sherlock's now, when suddenly his gaze is fixed on John's, standing behind the detective.

- …"poor John".

The doctor eyes widen while Sherlock squints at Turner.

- Poor John. That's all she said to me. And those two words are branded in my brain ever since. "Poor John".

The man walks away from them and John relaxes a bit; Turner reaches the bar counter of the room and leans against it, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, swallowing it in a gulp and slamming down the empty glass afterwards with a hiss and a frown.  
For a second, John wonders how much the room would cost but quickly shakes the thought away.

_Timing_.

- I'm intrigued by your relationship.  
- Why? – Sherlock tilts his head to the side.  
- It's funny, you know? Talking about this right now.

Sherlock licks his lips and relaxes his shoulders, and John knows what that means: he found something new.

- You and McCarthy. Your friendship.  
- Oh, I wouldn't call it that. It was, at the beginning. Then it became more like…blackmailing.

John is now too curious and forgets that a gun is still pointed at him.

- Why?  
- You obviously know that I'm the killer, but you haven't figured it out why, haven't you? – Turner smiles.  
- Something to do with an arranged marriage?

Sherlock turns quickly to John, mumbling.

- Shut up, leave it to me.  
- Something like that. But there's more to it.  
- Please, entertain us.

The culprit limps back to them, almost whispering.

- He was like a brother to me. I met him while staying in Australia. He was there to "find himself", as he told me, and we soon found out we were both…well, today they call us "computer nerds" or something like that. We were inseparable, we did everything together and we applied for the same job in a software company. A small one, no big deal, but it was okay for a start in the business. And then one day, I did something very stupid.

He pauses and clears his throat.

- I...stole a project. Yes, a project, let's just leave it at that. I stole a project from one of our colleagues. A very, very promising one. Basically, I based my whole carrier on that project. I was a kid, I was stupid and I was driven by the desire for success and money, and when I realized what I did it was too late to confess. But Charles…Charles knew and never said anything. To anyone else or to me for that matter and that drove me crazy. I had hundreds of sessions with…oh, well, I can't even begin to put a number on how many therapists I had throughout the years.

John is captured by his story and sits back on his armchair, but freezes when he realizes that, while talking, Turner got more and more closer to him and Sherlock. The latter seizes the moment with a snarky remark that makes the doctor even more uncomfortable.

- I told you to entertain us, not to bore us to death with your medical history.

Turner bits his lower lip angrily.

- As I was saying, his indifference ruined my life, but it all changed when he asked me for money. At the time, it was just a small loan but then it slowly became a bribe. There was this silent arrangement between us; if you get me what I want there will be no problem. If you don't…well, you get the rest.  
- So that's it? It's a case of blackmailing?

Sherlock stares at John trying to telepathically communicate him to shut up, while Turner leans on his cane a bit more.

- Do you really think that after thirty years of blackmailing I'd randomly decide to kill him? I've given him money, houses, prestige, all his life, and…  
- Yes, we know, and then he asked for your daughter and you snapped. How original.

Sherlock's words go unheard by John, who's visibly bothered by Turner and tries to protect James' honor and honesty.

- You didn't decide to kill him; you decide to blame an eighteen year old kid for something horrible. Yes, let's settle things with a murder instead of talking and communicating, let's skip the normal part and jump to death and life sentences. That's what people do, right?

Sherlock knows that John's words are meant for him, or at least are drawn from his still burning pain in his chest, the pain that he caused while trying to do good. He's not completely oblivious to sentiment and feelings; he just doesn't know how to handle them so a stone-cold face usually does the trick.  
The detective feels John's eyes on him but doesn't look back; instead, he decides to make a move that triggers something unexpected.

- I'm sorry, what exactly do you expect to accomplish while threatening us with a gun?  
- You didn't have to! You incompetent morons!

John is glad that Turner's shouting covered his curses.

- I wrote a will, you know? I have a few months to live, I'm done. I wrote a will explaining everything, clearing James' name and apologizing.  
- Oh good, you apologized, how thoughtful, I'm sorry I sent you to jail for months accusing you of killing your father. They should make cards for that, it'd be much easier.

Sherlock loses his patience and finally turns to John.

- John, would you please do me a favor and _SHUT UP_?

John stares into Sherlock's eyes with a mixture of rage and exhaustion.

- Don't patronize me Sherlock, you know I-

_Click_.

The safety of Turner's gun comes off, a noise that somehow echoes thru the room.

- Yes John – Turner whispers - Please shut up.

The cold steel pressed on John's forehead almost burns.


	10. The Violent Bear It Away

**As you probably may have noticed, all the chapters are named after song titles. This one is from Moby, and it helped me through the writing; I'm not saying you **_**have to**_** listen to it, because maybe a seven minute instrumental song is not your cup of tea, but it wouldn't hurt. Imho, it really fits this chapter. Anyway, here you go (I didn't have time to go over it the usual seventyfive times before publishing, so forgive me for any typos or mistakes).**

* * *

_- Listen, John, I'm not very good at this._

_- At what?_  
_- Expressing…certain...things._

_John holds his fork mid-air, halfway to his mouth, and licks his lips._

_- Sherlock, you don't have to say anything._  
_- I feel like I have to._

_The doctor puts the fork down; with his thumb wipes a smudge of tomato sauce off the corner of his mouth and then leans back on his seat.  
It's been two months since Sherlock return and now they're sitting at the table in John's living room, after days of begging him to come and have dinner with him and Mary; the latter is in the kitchen and Sherlock seizes the moment to talk. After a long pause, John sighs._

_- Yes, maybe, a normal person would have to. Not you._

_Sherlock knits his eyebrows and looks almost hurt._

_- Why not?_  
_- Because, you're…you. What happened doesn't change anything, you did it for me and as much as it pains me to say this, you did right. Well, not entirely, but I get what you did and why you did it. There's no need to add words, facts speak for themselves._

_Sherlock looks relieved._

_- So…we're okay?_  
_- Yes, Sherlock. – John chuckles – We're okay. Now eat, or Mary will find me shoving spaghetti down your throat._

_The detective scowls and crosses his arms._

_- I don't want it, it's overcooked._

Sherlock is standing beside John, who's still sitting: his palms are sweating and he tries to control his breathing, failing. The last time something like this happened John was wearing a Semtex vest and Moriarty was threating to blow them up but despite that, Sherlock felt confident: ironically, he trusted Moriarty.  
Moriarty was the other side of the same coin and Sherlock could anticipate his every move.  
When he briefly glanced at John searching for permission before pointing the gun to the bomb, he knew that something would have stop him; he never imagined that something to be the Bee Gees but he was right nonetheless. Besides, the gun was a fake one so, you know, God bless disco music.  
But Turner is no Moriarty: he's not a man playing a pervert game, he's not in control of his emotions, he's not a cold, black-hearted killer and that scared Sherlock to death. Turner was a desperate man driven by revenge, he had nothing left to lose, not even his life: an expiring date written all over you somehow gives you power and right now his power is a cold gun pressed against John's forehead.

- A gun can do miracle, isn't it, John?

John swallows and closes his eyes.

- John is not up to chit-chats right now. Talk to me instead.

_Point the gun at me._

-Answer me. What are you trying to do?

Turner tries to hide a sob and lowers his head, almost ashamed.

- My daughter. She will find out, who I am, what I did, and…it's…it's all over.  
- Yes, I get that.

John opens his eyes to look at Sherlock with exasperation.

- Believe me, I get that. But why kill us? It doesn't make sense.

Silence falls in the room and a staring game starts between Sherlock and Turner, as if the detective is trying to read his thoughts in his eyes: the man presses his lips together and the detective tilts his head to the side.

- You're jealous.

John now looks at Turner with his mouth slightly open.

- He's what?  
- You're jealous of what we have, John and I.

The man with a gun is quiet and sighs looking out of the window.

- He was like a brother to me.  
- So? What does it have to do with us?  
- You started prying around.  
- Yes, "prying around" is apparently my sin.

Sherlock feels the need to pace the room: his right leg is twitching and he starts shifting on his feet but he has to fight back: he doesn't want to leave John alone.

- That's it? You want to kill us just because we did our job and because accidentally we're also friends? That's very mature of you.  
- Do I have to point a gun at you too so you'll shut up?  
- Yes, please.

John stands up without thinking, shouting.

- NO, DON'T!

Turner didn't see that coming and freezes, with his gun now pointing to John's stomach.

- That's very cute. The two of you protecting each other, that's very sweet. I can see why my daughter wants you to be a couple.

They stay like that for a while: John holding his breath with a gun now pressed hard against his stomach and the other two still staring at each other. Sherlock is the first one to break the silence.

- Kill me.  
- Why?

John doesn't realize he started whispering.

_No, no, no, no, don't, please don't._

- I said, WHY?

Sherlock holds a fist to his mouth as he clears his throat and then swallows a gulp of air.

- Because…  
- Sherlock, you don't have to do this.  
- …because he's my life.

John stops breathing for a second and then acts on an impulse: he quickly grabs Turner's arm, twists it and trying to slam the wrist on his knee to make him drop the gun. It's a matter of seconds but then John inadvertently catches Sherlock's terrified look and suddenly finds himself with his back pressed against Turner's, his arm around his neck and the muzzle of the gun pressed against his temple.  
The man shouts again.

- WHY?  
- For God's sake, I told you, he's my life. My work is my life, and he's my work, you do the math. If he dies I don't know what to do, I'd probably starve to death and die alone on a couch, he's more than a best friend to me, he's family, more than my brother, I'd die for him, I almost did, I decided to fake my own death just because I was worried for him, I didn't want to end things like that, otherwise I'd be already dead, he saved me, literally, mentally, physically, I don't know what to do without him. THERE, are you happy now?

Sherlock is panting, his cheeks are red and his nostrils flared; his jaw is clenched, his hands balled into fists.  
He's staring directly at Turner and then at John, noticing his watering eyes.

- Yes, happy.

And then _bang_.

* * *

**Well, this is just cruel, isn't it?**


	11. Numb

**Hi there! Just wanted to point out that the last three chapters are not in the original story, the whole plot with the gun and the heartbreaking bromance is all me and my wicked mind. And I didn't see this coming, seriously, I don't know what happened, I'm not in control of my own imagination. This is another warning, apparently. Anyway, I'm stalling, enjoy!**

* * *

For a couple of seconds, Sherlock's sight blurred: muffled sounds in the background, head swirling.

_What happened? Bang. I heard a bang. John. Blood. Everywhere. John. John?_

- JOHN!

John is barely standing on his feet: he's staring at his right hand and his breathing is ragged.  
Sherlock is beside him in a second, he blinks a couple of times, finally focusing his gaze: John's face is covered with blood, his knees buckle and Sherlock catches him before he hits the ground while the doctor clutches at the detective's shoulders.

- Are you okay?  
- What happened?

Sherlock looks behind him: Turner is lying on the floor, his gun still in his hand. A hole in his head.

- Nothing. Just…nothing, you're in shock, come with me.

John tries to wriggle out of the detective's grip and stumbles back against the wall.

- Did he just…I thought…I heard a bang and I thought…he shot you.  
- It's okay, this is all my fault but I'm heartless so I can live with it.

It was supposed to be a joke but the doctor – still panting – shoots Sherlock one of his _are-you-kidding-me?_ looks.

- What you said…  
- Yes, what I said triggered his insanity, it's my fault.  
- That's not what I meant.  
- I know, that's why I interrupted you.

A minute passes by in silence, both of them trying to recollect their thoughts: John slides down the wall and is now sitting on the floor with his hands holding his head, while Sherlock rushes by his side and places a hand on his shoulder.

- John? Are you with me?

John blinks a few times and then turns to look directly into the eyes of the younger man.

- What happened? I mean, I can see that but…what…I can't…  
- That's it, I'm calling Lestrade and I'm taking you to the hospital.  
- No, I'm fine, seriously Sherlock, I'm…okay.  
- Clearly you're not.

Sherlock stands up and takes his phone out of his pocket while John presses his palms against his eyes for a second; he stares at his hands covered in Turner's blood and chokes on his breath.

- What you said…  
- John, now is not the time.

The detective walks to the bathroom and comes back with some wet towels: he crouches next to John and starts wiping his face, his hair and then his hands, while the doctor's eyes are fixed on the body.

- What…what happened…?  
- John, could you please stop looking at it?  
- IT?  
- It, him, whatever, it's not my problem right now.

John decides to let Sherlock's cynicism go, especially after what he said to him just minutes ago.

_What did he say?_

- I don't understand…

Sherlock stops and stares at John holding his wrist between his index finger and his thumb.

_One, two, three, four, five, six..._

- He was a very disturbed man, John. He spent his all life bargaining with a man he thought to be his best friend. He felt betrayed and alone, the secrets ate him from the inside. He had nothing left to lose, we…_I_ was only a pretense.  
- Us.  
- What?  
- Us. _We_ were a pretense. It's nobody's fault, especially not ours. But it's not just you, it's us.

John stares blankly in front of him and Sherlock's phone rings.

**###**

When Lestrade and his team barge in the room, Sherlock and John are sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall; Lestrade stops a few feet from them, observing the lifeless body and scratching his stubble.

- I told you to stop interfering.  
- Seriously? Do you really think this is the right time for a lecture?

Sherlock stands up and straightens his jacket.

- I'm not lecturing you but I told you about the consequences of your actions.  
- Isn't this enough? – Sherlock whispers and nods toward his friend, still sitting on the floor.

Lestrade turns to face John and gapes at him.

- John? Everything alright?

The doctor snaps his head up, meeting Sherlock's eyes for a second before staring back at Lestrade.

- Yeah…yeah. I'm just…I mean, I saw enough people dying to be strangely okay with that. But this…happened so fast. I tried to stop him and then I got…distracted, and I found myself pinned with a gun at my temple and I almost blackout but it felt like it lasted hours. I don't know why…  
- Right, I have to get you to the hospital, John, it's the standard procedure.  
- Why, because you don't have a blanket with you?

Lestrade ignores Sherlock's remark and they both help John on his feet with their arms around him.

- Oh, and he's the killer, by the way.  
- Oh Jeez, thanks Sherlock! What would I do without you?

**###**

John didn't remember arriving at the hospital; he didn't remember sitting in a lounge waiting for a nurse to call, with Sherlock next to him.  
If you ask him he'd tell you he's fine.

_Seriously, I'm fine. I'm okay. I was a soldier, I can handle this._

If you look at him, you'd say he's fine: he looks a bit tired, he often stares in front of him focusing on nothing in particular, but nothing out of the ordinary.

_Seriously, he's fine. He's okay. He was a soldier, he can handle this._

But Sherlock knows the truth.

_Constantly rubbing his thigh. The pain in the leg came back. Left fingers wiggling and curling into fists. Nervous. Vacant look on his face. Lost in his thoughts._

Sherlock clears his throat and John snaps out of his reverie.

- Did you say something?  
- No, I just…are you sure you're okay?

Without answering or looking at him, John stands up and sits opposite of Sherlock, who's now fighting back a laugh.

- Fine, as you wish. Let's play this way. Do you want a coloring book? Or do you want to call your mummy? I'm sure she'll find the right words.

John shouts and slams a fist on the wall behind him.

- Dammit Sherlock, I told you, I'm fine! Jesus Christ, stop asking me!

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and pouts.

- Yeah, you're peachy.  
- We don't have to do this.  
- Do what?  
- Wait for a doctor, I am one!  
- There are times when even a doctor needs a doctor.  
- I know when something is wrong and there's nothing wrong with me.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and straightens up his back.

- Are you sure? What about your leg? Or your left index finger twitching, searching for trigger to pull? Or the fact that I can see the vein on your neck pulsing or the damp hair sticking to your forehead?

John licks his lips and chuckles nervously, shifting on his seat and looking around him.

- You know what, Sherlock? I can't do this.  
- Oh for God's sake John, it's just a routine checkup!

The doctor quickly stands up, strides toward Sherlock and grabs his shirt collar with both hands, slamming him on the back of his seat.

- You bloody IDIOT! I'm not talking about this, I'm talking about you!

Sherlock's face is motionless but his eyes are filled with an unusual and uncomfortable rage; he tries to control his voice, sounding as calm as possible.

- Me?  
- You – John whispers, just inches apart from the detective's face.

They stare at each other for a while, neither of them talking, then he doctor loosens his grip and makes his way out the room.  
Sherlock is not one to care about what other people think, but right now he's glad nobody is watching; he clears his throat again, running his finger over his neck. When he decides to go after him, he finds John pacing nervously right outside the hospital and he slowly walks up to him.

- Care to explain what just happened?

John doesn't look at him but stops and bends forward, resting his hand on his knees, panting.

- Leave me alone.  
- I would, but you have the keys to our room.

John fumbles inside his pocket for a second and then throws the key card, which almost bounces off Sherlock's stomach. The detective stares down at it, lying in a puddle at his feet.

- Now leave.  
- Well. This is new.  
- What? What Sherlock, what's new?  
- You reacting this way. I'm usually the one who takes it out on other people.

John sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, chuckling.

- And you're the one who storms off after that. Funny, isn't it?  
- Don't go.  
- What do you care, Sherlock?  
- We can't both act this way, someone needs to pull the brake  
- Yeah, well…I'm tired.

Sherlock presses his lips together and stares at John walking away.

* * *

**God good, what have I done? Poor Sherlock.**


	12. Unfinished Business

_- Sometimes…_

_John and Sherlock are sitting on their couch, watching telly and eating Chinese takeaway; the doctor sighs, looking inside his noodle box._

_- Sometimes what?_  
_- Sometimes…I'm afraid of turning into someone like my sister._  
_- What? A woman?_  
_- Ha! Very, very funny Sherlock. I meant…you know. An alcoholic._  
_- Ah, I see._

_Sherlock stops for a minute, staring in front of him, his whole body frozen; then, as if a hypnotist snapped his finger in front of his face, he suddenly moves and resumes eating. __John knows better than to ask for his opinion: if he doesn't answer right away, if he doesn't shove random knowledge down your throat with the intention of making you feel stupid, then he simply doesn't care enough.  
__The room is lit by the glow coming from the tv and the sound of random voices is interrupted only by their chewing._

_- You won't._  
_- I'm sorry, what?_  
_- You won't become like your sister._

_John turns his head to look at his friend, who is faking interest in the tv series the doctor likes so much._

_- Who's this guy again?_  
_- …Gregory House. But how can you be sure?_  
_- I like him. He's sharp and straightforward._  
_- Yeah, wonder why you like him. But seriously Sherlock, how?_  
_- I like him because he solves the puzzles._  
_- Yes, okay, you like him because he's like you. Stop pretending you're not listening to me!_

_Sherlock snorts and finally looks at John._

_- You won't become like her. A popular misbelief makes you worry about alcoholism being genetic when in fact it's not entirely true. In many cases it's environmental. If you grow up in house where alcoholism is the normalcy then of course there will be higher percentage of you becoming one. It's part of the learning process, monkey see monkey do, or in this case monkey see, monkey thinks is normal and monkey will repeat it when he grows up. Harry isn't your mother, when she started with the heavy drinking you were already training to become an army doctor and it obviously didn't affect your learning process. So no, you won't turn into an alcoholic._

_The detective turns his head back to the tv._

_- Also, it's clearly not lupus. I don't know why they're still wasting their time on that._

_John smiles and feels strangely relieved._

**####**

It's three o'clock in the morning when Sherlock comes back to the hotel room: he didn't follow John, he didn't ask him where he was going, he didn't yell at him insults or snarky comebacks. For once, he chose silence, and then he walked for three hours straight.  
As he strides down the dim-lit corridor of the hotel, his muffled footsteps on the thick carpet is the only sound that can be heard; once outside the room, the key card slides into the slot and the door clicks.

The dark room is invaded by the blue light coming from the tv: John is sitting at the desk with an empty glass in his hand and a half emptied bottle of Jack Daniel's in his other.

- Having fun, are we?  
- I'm not drunk. – John slurs.  
- Of course not. You're just…dizzy and warm inside.  
- I'm not. Or at least…"not enough to drive me into oblivion, just the right amount to let my idiocy run free".  
- There's no need for sarcasm. Or air quotes, for that matter.  
- There's always time for sarcasm. You can sod off now.

John slams the glass on the desk and drinks straight from the bottle while Sherlock takes another glass and offers it to John.

- What?  
- Pour me some. If we're going to fight at least grant me the same starting grid.

John lifts his chin, wincing at the pain in his head while doing so.

- What are you talking about? We're not fighting.  
- Not now. We will.  
- Sherlock, I don't have time for this.  
- Sure you have. Here, let me start.

Sherlock swallows his drink with one swift move and sits in front of John.

- Have you called Mary?

The doctor's eyes widen and then he rubs his right palm on his forehead.

- Shit.  
- You didn't call her. And why is that?  
- I'm sorry, I had kind of a busy day, we arrived at the other side of the world this morning and then a man pointed a gun at me and then killed himself.  
- I'm not an expert, John, but when something like this happens, the first thing a fiancé – or even a simple boyfriend – does is calling his loved one.  
- Like you said, you're not an expert, so shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

Sherlock sighs and runs his left hand on his thigh.

- You make things too much easier for me.  
- Am I?  
- Yes. You want to know why?  
- Does it matter what I want?

Sherlock straightens up on his seat and tilts his head.

- Always.  
- Really? Really, Sherlock? What I want counts? Since when? Because seeing you jump from a rooftop wasn't exactly a dream of mine.

John is shouting now and Sherlock swallows down his third glass.

- I thought we were over this.  
- NEVER, this will never be something to put behind our backs.

John stands up and starts pacing around the room, touching random objects, opening and closing the curtains, biting his nails.

- I told you what happened and why.  
- Yes, thank you Professor Holmes, a nice lecture on how to fake your own death. I'm sorry I didn't take notes.  
- No, you moron, I also told you why I did it. Is it convenient for you? Pretending not to remember? I'm genuinely curious; it's almost fascinating seeing an average mind like yours at work, especially if intoxicated.

John takes deep breaths, trying to slow down his heartbeat.

- You're upset about what I said earlier. Why? A normal functioning human being should be flattered. But not you. You decide to act childish and then drink straight into unconsciousness. Why?

The doctor grits his teeth and curls his fingers into fists.

- You didn't have to.  
- Yes, John, yes I did. He was threating you; I could see the red mark forming on your temple and the utter fury in Turner's eyes. You would have done the same. They're just words John, get over it.

The detective is at his fifth glass: he starts to feel the heat running through his veins so he stands up and removes his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.

- Just words? What you said to me were just words?  
- Yes. If it helps, I just made them up on the spot.  
- You did?

The look on John's face is a mixture of disappointment and relief.

- Of course not.  
- You clearly don't understand the concept of "if it helps".

Sherlock turns his back on him and smiles, carefully placing his jacket on the back of the seat.

- This is so annoying! – John growls.  
- What?  
- We're fighting and you're worrying about wrinkles on your precious jacket!  
- So _we are_ fighting?

John breathes heavily through his nose, shivering with anticipation, then walks up to his friend and punches him hard in the gut, making Sherlock double-over, grabbing his stomach and growling in pain.

- Yes, yes we are.

* * *

**Apparently Sherlock really dislikes air quotes. And I really miss Gregory House **_*starts sobbing*_


	13. Simple Math

Sherlock falls down on his knees with one arm wrapped around his waist; John is backing away, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and sniffing, expecting a similar reaction. Instead, the detective starts laughing and growling in pain at the same time, stumbling while trying to stand up.

- I was right.  
- YES, you were right, the Great Sherlock Holmes was right once again! – John raises his arms, yelling.  
- That's only fair.

Sherlock snorts and finally looks up to meet John's eyes.

- Fair what?  
- You've got some unresolved issues with me and you're expressing yourself with violence. Not that I'm expecting anything more than that from an average mind.

John snarls at Sherlock with a feral look and runs up to him, tackling him to the ground with a loud thump; the younger man hisses in pain and slams a fist against the floor. The doctor is now standing above him, straddling him with his legs, one hand pressed on Sherlock's sternum, the other one wrapped around his neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

- FIGHT BACK! – He growls.

Sherlock's face is turning red but he doesn't move: he knows how to defeat John, he could slam him against the wall behind them in just a few moves, but instead he just wraps his hands around the doctor's arms, squeezing hard.

- I SAID, FIGHT BACK!

John releases his grip on the other one's neck and quickly stands up, while Sherlock is heaving on the floor, sputtering words.

- I'm not going to fight back.  
- Why not! I want you to fight back, show me some kind of human reaction, for Christ's sake, FIGHT BACK!

_- ...You machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own._  
_- Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._  
_- No. Friends protect peopl_e.

John grabs him by his shirt and lifts him up with a strength that surprises Sherlock; they're now standing in front of each other, panting.

- Fight back!

John slams his knee into Sherlock's rib cage, making him fall down on the ground again, shrieking in pain.

- Come on!

Sherlock coughs and rolls on his stomach, pushing himself up.

- No…  
- I'm going to hit you until you do.  
- Help yourself.

The detective is leaning clumsily against the desk, with his eyes closed and his right arm still wrapped around him.

- Don't provoke me Sherlock; you know I was a soldier.

_- You were a doctor!_  
_- I had bad days!_

Sherlock chuckles, grabbing at his stomach and making John more annoyed than ever.

- Hit me Sherlock.  
- No…

_- Punch in the face._  
_- Punch you?_  
_- Yes, punch me in the face, didn't you hear me?_

- HIT ME!  
- No, John, I'm not going to feed your need for violence.  
- You're feeding me with violence right now, the more you wait the more violent I become. HIT ME!  
- No…you need this.  
- You don't know what I need, you don't know shit about me.

_- I know you for real._  
_- A hundred percent._  
_- Nobody can fake being an annoying dick all the time_.

The detective smiles and his eyes are getting watery from the pain; he doesn't even have the time to check his ribs that a punch makes him fall back to the floor, his left cheek pressed against the ground. Watching Sherlock lying still with his eyes closed forces John to snap out of his rage for a couple of seconds but before he could rush by his side the detective slowly moves his face, pressing his palm to the floor, struggling back up to his knees.

- Are you done?  
- Are you going to fight back?  
- No.  
- Then no, I'm not done.

John shifts on his feet, waiting for something to hit him; Sherlock stands up slowly, wiping blood from his upper lip, grimacing at the pain. He leans back on the wall behind him and raises his hands at the doctor: _cease fire for a minute, John._

- Why are you doing this?  
- I am mad at you.  
- Yes, I figured that out, thank you very much. But why?  
- Can you deduce it?  
- We can't solve the issue with sarcasm John. Answer me. This isn't because of what happened with Moriarty, at least not entirely. What's wrong? Is this really for what I said?

Sherlock's voice is broken by pain: he coughs and sniffs and growls while talking and John starts to feel guilty.

- Yes.  
- For what is worth, I told the truth.  
- THAT'S THE PROBLEM! Do you have any idea the position you put me in?

The detective frowns at him, slightly amused.

- Position? What position? You don't have to say or do anything. You don't have to respond to what I said. I had to say it though, I had no choice. Believe me, that was the last thing I wanted to do.  
- Well, thanks.  
- You know what I mean, John, stop menstruating.

Normally, John would laugh at Sherlock's attempt to make a joke but right now the rage can't seem to stop flowing in his veins.

- I can't live with this.  
- With what?  
- Knowing how you feel.  
- Oh please John, can we get over this? We're not kids. You're my best friend, you're my only friend, you knew that before.  
- Yes, but that's not like saying that I'm your life!

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tries to sit down but a stab of pain makes him gasp.

- There's nothing…sentimental or romantic in what I said. I simply stated the facts, you're my work, my work is my life. You can do simple math, right John?

The doctor walks to stand right in front of Sherlock.

- What happened to you being heartless? What happened to not having compassion and affection? What happened to Sherlock Holmes not feeling, not having emotions, what happened to that cold, icy slab of marble you called heart? What happened to love that clogs your precious brain?

John is whispering now and looking directly at Sherlock, who's avoiding his eyes and biting his lower lip.

- Answer me, you lifeless idiot.

That was the final straw: John barely has time to get his breath back that Sherlock shoves him against the wall. The doctor smiles deviously seeing the younger man's eyes, full of rage and revenge, and moves around the room preparing for an attack.

- You decided to fight back.  
- I decided to shut you up.

Sherlock strides towards his friend and tackles him to the ground like he did minutes ago; they land in front of the bathroom door, with the detective on top of John, both grasping at each other's throats. John flips them over, giving Sherlock an advantage: he grips at John's belt to keep him steady and then punches him in the stomach, causing him to fall on his side, crying out in pain. The younger man stands up and grabs John's elbow, helping him on his feet, hoping for a truce. The doctor seizes the opportunity and shoves Sherlock against the wall, pinning him down with his arm on his neck. They start to struggle to get inside the bathroom, both with the same idea, but the detective gets the upper hand by holding both of John's hand behind his back and slamming him against the shower's tile; the doctor slides down and Sherlock lets the freezing water pour down on him.

- You don't get to treat me like that John, after all I've done for you.

They're both gasping for air; John doesn't look at Sherlock so the latter grabs the doctor's hair, twisting it.

- You're my best friend. I don't know what I would do without you. You have to learn to deal with this, John. If this is too much for you then leave. Nobody's keeping you here.

_- What is he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine._  
_- I'm never bored._

- I can't go on like this anymore.

Sherlock lets go of John's air and moves to slide down the other side of the shower door.

- So you'll leave.  
- Yes.

They spent the next thirty minutes in silence, John still sitting inside the shower and Sherlock right outside of it; the detective has dried blood around his mouth and a bruised cheekbone, while the doctor has a cut on his head and livid wrists.

- I'm sorry.  
- For what?  
- Eventual injuries.  
- It's not a problem, John, you know that.

The doctor sighs and leans his head against the door.

- So when can I come back to Baker Street?

* * *

**Seriously guys, my brain was yelling "NOW KISS!" at every line. It was painful.**


	14. Death

The flight was silent, apart for John asking a question about the case: they were already sitting on the plane, John watching outside his window and Sherlock with his head leaned on the headrest, eyes closed. The doctor opened his mouth to talk but closed it right after.

_Never mind. _

- What?  
- I'm sorry? - John turned his head to Sherlock.  
- You wanted to ask me something. What?  
- Oh, it's nothing, it's about the case.  
- Then it's not nothing. Tell me. – the detective opened his eyes and looks at him.  
- I didn't get the "rat" thing…McCarthy blabbering about a rat right before he died?

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes again.

- Ballarat.  
- Balla-_what_?  
- It's a city in the state of Victoria. I assume it meant something to him and Turner and as it turns out, they met there. Actually, they lived there for a while, as flat mates.  
- Really?  
- Yes really, does it sounds like something I'd made up?

John sighed, crossed his arms and leaned against the window.

- And you know all this because…?  
- When you were having your little breakdown I sneaked into Turner's house.  
- Figures.

After an exhausting flight back, where Sherlock remained suspiciously silent and still the whole time, they finally set foot on British soil; once outside, John breathes in the chilly air and smiles.

- Home.

Sherlock shifts on his feet and hails a cab, avoiding John's eyes.

- So what now?  
- I guess I have to talk to Mary.  
- And then what?  
- I don't know…Chinese?

The detective smiles and they took different cabs home.  
John stops right outside the door of his fiancé's house and rests his forehead against it, inhaling deeply.

- Come on, you can do this. She'll understand. It's just temporary, until I sort things out with that moron. - John whispers to himself.

Inside, silence reigns and a thick darkness engulfed John.

- Mary?

The sound of random drops of water dripping from the kitchen faucet echoes around him.

- Mary? Where are you?

John licks his lips and cold sweat starts rolling down his forehead.

_Not good.  
_  
He slowly climbs the stairs, gripping the wooden handrail.

- Mary?

John walks to their room, a soft light coming from slightly opened door.

- Are you okay?

Right outside the bedroom he hears the muffled sound of loud music.

- Jesus Mary, you scared me to death. – John mumbles, putting down his bag.

The door creaks and for a second John's attention shifts on the door hinges.

- Shit! Again? I guess Sherlock was right, never use graphite lubricant on a door. Don't know why he knew that but it doesn't surprise me. That wanker is always right.

The doctor moves the door a bit, not looking at Mary lying on the bed; when he does, his heart stops and his breath hitches in his throat: he stiffens and turns pale, his blood freezing in his veins.

- Ma…Mary?

Mary is lying on the bed. The handle of a knife sticking out of her chest with a note pinned down.  
John gapes and can't breathe properly: his stomach is churning nauseatingly, his hands are shaking and his eyes are filled with terror. Then something snaps and he rushes by her side.

- No…no no no no no no no no no! NO!

Mary's eyes are shut, her mouth slightly open with a dried trickle of blood coming out of it.  
John starts crying, finally, and strokes her hair resting his forehead on hers.  
Between the sobs and the muffled screams against the pillow, John stands up and catches a glimpse of the note pinned on Mary's chest.

"_Tell your friend that I will kill every woman in London until he's mine. Sorry for your loss_".

* * *

**WHAT! I started this chapter with another ending in mind and then this happened. I mean, I had this idea whirling around in my mind for a while, as a ground for my next story, but I never saw this coming. At least not now. I guess you'll have to wait! Stay tuned.**


End file.
